My Armageddon Team
by Jennifer Pak
Summary: Sherlock is alive and hiding out in the middle of nowhere desperately trying to occupy his mind as his thoughts begin to wander. In an attempt at distraction he begins to wonder who he would want as allies at the end of the world.


**Title:** My Armageddon Team

**Word Count**: ~ 2,200

**Summary:** Sherlock is alive and hiding out in the middle of nowhere desperately trying to occupy his mind as his thoughts begin to wander. In an attempt at distraction he begins to wonder who he would want as allies at the end of the world.

**A/N:** A companion to, 'Flowers of Hope' and 'An Act of Faith', you don't have to have read them first but everything would make a little more sense if you did. I hope this lives up to expectations. Please read and review.

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><p>My mind has been frustratingly idle of late. The adrenaline from the thrill of faking my own death has faded quickly. Only now I realise how little I have to do. I'm lying low in a shack in the middle of nowhere. There is no one else around and save the owl which has taken to roosting in the rafters, I'm completely alone. I'll be stuck here for a few months just until the media lets my story go and people begin to forget. Then I can hunt down the rest of Moriarty's operation; but for now, I wait. There is nothing so tedious.<p>

I've been wandering the halls of my mind palace, in an attempt to stay occupied, when I saw a flicker of a memory. It was an email John had received 22 days after he'd moved in. It was a bland, social exercise, a piece of chain mail. It wasn't the usual forward-this-or-you-will-die affair. It was a hypothetical question, which at the time deserved no more than a cursory glance.

Now however it has given me, something to focus on. The question was quite simple:

Who would be on your on your Armageddon Team?

The team was three people you would want by your side should the world try to end. You would then forward the message onto those three people, and so the message spreads. Having nothing better to do, I have begun wondering, who would be on my Armageddon Team?

**1. John Hamish Watson**

He's an army doctor. Comfortable with combat, a damn good shot, calm under pressure and he's a fully trained doctor; who's seen the full spectrum of injury from seasonal flu to blown off limbs. Need I say more? There is actually a lot to be said about John. Though I am attempting to stay objective, my mind seems content to wander.

John's room in my mind palace is a hospital ward, a huge space, the size of a dance hall, neatly divided with garish plastic curtains. In glass cases resting on the hospital beds, I have nearly everything there is to know about the man. It's all laid out like some kind of macabre museum. The space modelled on John's rather lyrical description of the first A&E he worked in. It's perhaps not a beautiful place but it fits.

I told John a long time ago that I delete things that aren't important. That's not exactly true. They get filed away in long forgotten corners of my palace. Not that John's room is in a corner. Look at me, rambling like this. It's undignified.

My point, I suppose, is that John would be a good asset. A doctor, a fighter and a friend.

**2. Mycroft Arthur Holmes**

No matter what I say about my brother, I can't ignore the fact that he worked his way up through the ranks of the secret service. Mycroft didn't just step into politics; he was noticed and promptly thrown into service of the crown. He may not be an active man now, but that doesn't change the fact that, unarmed, he can kill a man 57 ways, (I'm still trying to figure out the last 4) not that he's ever unarmed.

The umbrella is his own ingenious creation, concealing a sword and an air gun, while still functioning as an umbrella. It's become a favourite amongst many agents. I used to walk through the crowded streets of London, picking out these rather special umbrellas. There were always little scuff marks where the sword has been removed and where the gun has been fired. Mycroft's never had those marks. He's always so meticulous, even in those moments when he's right on the edge.

My brother is a formidable opponent, and on the few occasions we have worked together we have proved a force of nature. That, however, is a whole other chapter of my life, when I'd foolishly accepted his offer to join the secret service. The bureaucracy was nearly unbearable, but the thrill was intoxicating. A sensation I've tried to recreate with cocaine to no avail.

Mycroft is also technically a doctor, though he has never practised, and he never will. He even keeps up to date with medical journals as almost a hobby. He was determined to gain his degree after our fathers death; a coping mechanism of sorts. Father had been disappointed that his children had no interest in being doctors and so Mycroft went and became a doctor. He's used that knowledge to kill and torture more than to heal, which I'm sure is frowned upon. No matter, Mycroft is my brother and I do care for him in a roundabout sort of way.

His room in my mind palace is next to John's, once it was a great cathedral. The celling painted with fantastical images, the floors lined with intricate patterns in the tiles and great stained glass vistas all along the walls. It hasn't looked like that in a while though. Now it's an abandoned warehouse. Not just any warehouse. It's The Warehouse, where Mycroft and I were taken after being sold out and kidnapped during my misspent years in the secret service. It was in The Warehouse that he taught me two of the most important things I've ever known. 'Caring is never an advantage' and 'Alone will keep me safe'.

I'm digressing again, and I'm not sure who my third person would be. There are many people that it could be, but none of them seem quite right. There is a certain ruthlessness and self-sufficiency required in an end of the world scenario. With my brother and I working at our whirlwind pace few people would be able to keep up. I can feel this prickling on the back of my neck as if I'm being watched. I turn around and see the owl staring down at me with it's wide green, brown eyes and suddenly I realise who I want the final person on my list to be.

**3. Belladonna Victoria Holmes**

Belladonna is my step-sister and she is very rarely acknowledged as such. Mummy doesn't talk about her first marriage, and never corrected people when they assumed Bell was our nanny. Not that our mother said much, especially not in defence of Belladonna who would go out of her way to annoy her.

Feelings between mummy and Bell have been none too friendly since I can remember, the contempt coming of course from her uncomfortably premature remarriage. Not that mummy spent any real time with her daughter. She and father were always terribly distant, and Belladonna looked after my brother and I.

Other than her pale skin she looks nothing like us; wide eyes, hazel with flecks of green, and hair that could never decide if it wanted to be red or brown. I don't have many new memories of her; the most recent is years old. At the time I had been working with Lestrade for only a year or so, when I solved a particularly tricky set of serial killings.

My last memory of her is her expression as she was arrested under the name Elizabeth Princeton, for the murders of 57 people.

Of course that doesn't deter me, despite my step-sisters transgression, she would make for an excellent asset. Prior to her arrest Bell made a living as a con-artist, a very good one. She turned observation and deduction into something beyond a fine art. I am not shy to admit she far exceeds me in those skills. She has always been a criminal, quite happy to break the law to gain something, as am I. She's a professional liar, she's quick on her feet, always calm, habitually neat and not afraid of anything or anyone. Belladonna is dangerous but she makes a loyal ally.

Those are my three people, my Armageddon Team. Should the world fall apart at it's seams they are the people I'd want by my side. In a way, with my life over, in a sense, I almost wish they were here with me. It can't be like that, but soon I'll be back in London. I'll see them again; maybe I will tell them how much I value them. I doubt it; these thoughts are for my quiet contemplation, never to be voiced.

~0~

She was in the middle nowhere. The shack before her was hidden from the world by thick forest, and narrow rock formations. The little cabin was practically in a cave.

She'd picked the old lock and entered the grim two room house. It was completely abandoned, dusty, the faint smell of mould hung in the air.

Her eyes took in the space as they danced around the room. Kitchen, bed, desk, chair, two lamps and a door, leading no doubt to a bathroom, decades old, recent lived in, abandoned again, simple, functional.

"Squatter's been through left about six months ago" she muttered to herself. She darted around the room taking in every little detail. It was sparse, with nothing really to say about the squatter, except a scrunched piece of paper, with only three, distressed looking words, scrawled on it in dark ink.

_John My Bell_

The woman smiled. Sherlock had been here. She had proof he was alive, or at least he had been six months ago. With one last examination of the hide away, she decided there was nothing else of interest there. She made a brief note that an owl had once roosted in the rafters no doubt going after any of the mice that dared journey to the pantry. When Sherlock left he took his food, without the food the mice stopped coming, and without the mice the owl decided to move on. Ecosystems are interesting like that.

She made to head back out into the real world, beyond the dense forest. Having spent several weeks, in a Bermuda Triangle style black spot, she wasn't surprised to have Mycroft calling practically the moment her mobile got signal.

"Mycroft, how are you?" she asked brightly.

"Where have you been? I haven't been able to reach you for weeks." he asked frustrated.

"Wrong question, you should be asking me why I've been out of range for three and a half weeks."

He sighed but indulged her anyway.

"Why have you been out of range?"

"I've been trying to find him and I came pretty close. Found his hide-out, six months too late, but it's something."

"Well I've got something a little more promising. Where are you? We need to get you to Brazil as soon as possible."

"Brazil" she whistled pretending to be impressed, "Fancy, what are we going to find there?"

"I'd rather you saw for yourself, where are you?" he repeated the question.

"I'm not absolutely sure" she said slowly, "I started pretty close to the western Russian border. I've been at this for a while, Mycroft, I wonder if I made it to Estonia? As soon as I find some people I'll find out. Now what's waiting for me in Brazil?" her voice took on a steelier sound as she asked the question. She didn't want to be brushed off again.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, ex-army, dishonourable discharge." He reeled off information. "One of the best shooters in the world. A very well trained sniper, served in Afghanistan and worked very high up in Moriarty's web. Perhaps even a right hand man, we can't really tell. We've been keeping an eye on him and he's in Brazil."

"He's still alive?" she wasn't expecting that but Mycroft chuckled.

"No, he's dead. Apparently he fell down the stairs of his flat and broke his neck ... but we both know that isn't quite true. The place was rather expertly turned over, the police of course haven't realised. I'm heading over as soon as feasible, I would..."

She cut him off, "I'll be heading back to London now then."

Mycroft was stunned, she had been there for him and quite happy to help convince John and Greg that Sherlock was alive. Now however she was blunt, and clearly wasn't interested in discussing the matter.

"Oh please Mycroft, your rationality is clouded, stay objective. He's pretending to be dead the last thing he wants is to be arrested. There will be nothing to find, except that some papers have been taken. Once Sherlock has dealt with every person in Moriarty's web, the names of which he found on that register, he will return to London. This is a waiting game now, there is nothing more for me to do."

"No doubt right as usual, but I have to try, I can't just leave it" Mycroft admitted.

Her face softened at the sound of the younger man's distress.

"I'll call you if I see him, otherwise, good evening Mycroft."

"Until then, Bell, have a pleasant flight."

"And you" she murmured before ending the call.

She looked at the scrap of paper she'd retrieved from the cabin. Sherlock had been thinking about her, had listed her amongst people he cared about, she had no idea how she was supposed to feel.

The end of the world was the only thing that could bring her and Sherlock back together.


End file.
